


Stories About My Clerics

by Syntax



Series: Stories About My D&D Characters [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Anthology, Child Soldiers, Daydreaming, Dreams, Fairy Tale Elements, False Identity, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Homebrew Content, Kinda, Loneliness, Loss of Identity, Major Character Undeath, Memory Loss, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Religion, Restoration, Robots, Stabbing, Tieflings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax/pseuds/Syntax
Summary: Sometimes you create the perfect character and then can't find a game to play them in. So naturally, the next best thing to do is write fanfiction about them.Chapter 1: Asterax of Eilonwhee, Revenant Death ClericChapter 2: Elisa Dupree, Tiefling Light ClericChapter 3: Marika Colovar, Warforged Life ClericChapter 4: Ladislava Harann, Human Strength Cleric
Series: Stories About My D&D Characters [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832869
Kudos: 1





	1. Death Domain

You're not quite sure how long you're standing out by the side of the road, robes muddied and sopping wet and whatever other personal affects you had with you just completely ruined by the rain, as you wait for a passing cart to see you and maybe take pity on you for making such a sorry sight. You might've been out for hours already. Or maybe just the one hour. It's hard to tell with the rain muddying the sky.

The rain is pouring down in buckets just about, plastering your hair to your skin and sticking in front of your eyes. You maybe might've found a dryer place to stand by the road, but there isn't one—none of the treetops are thick enough to filter the worst of the rain out from beneath their trunks, so if you tried to shelter under one of them you'd be equally wet but harder to see.

You're just about soaked to the bone. You can't even feel it anymore. You can't really feel anything anymore.

Not the cold. Not the wind. Not the fabric against your body. Not even the good dozen stab wounds you found littering your belly when you woke up.

You're kind of glad you can't feel those, but at the same time you're also kinda extremely concerned. You're pretty sure that people don't just wake up fine and dandy after getting stabbed a whole bunch. Then again, people don't normally wake up in shallow graves either, so that might have something to do with it.

You're not entirely sure, but you think you've had a pretty eventful day so far.

Your feet shuffle in the sopping wet grass, more for something to do than for any other reason since you can't really feel your legs locking up (you're pretty sure they're locked up, though) nor can you feel the tingly sensation of a limb falling asleep.

There really aren't any carts coming along this road, are there? You thought for sure it was a busy one. Maybe the deliverymen don't want to drive in the pouring rain? You certainly wouldn't.

You're not even really sure what you'd do if a cart came driving by anyways. You don't know where you're going. You don't know why you're here. You don't even have any money on you to pay for whatever ride you can get. Finding a to find something that can meet all three of your vague needs probably means you're going to be waiting for a long, long while.

You hold your arm out farther into the road and debate hiking your robes up above your knees and enticing any passersby to bring you along for the sheer glory of your legs. You're a man, but you're also elven, and for some humans the second trait cancels out the first one. Or enhances it. Or—

You don't even know where you're going with this anymore.

You decide to leave your robes where they are. You must look quite a sight anyways, covered in grave mud and drenched like a drowned cat. At lest the fabric of your robes is black so no one can see your myriad stab wounds.

How did you even get those, anyways?

You remember getting a letter, a bunch of letters actually, with your grandfather's letterhead on them. He'd passed away, you think. And you were... Going to the family estate? To attend the reading of his will?

No, that's not right. If you were going to the reading, why did you already receive so many documents from him? You're missing something.

You were going to your grandfather's estate, but why? Did you already have plans? Did you already know he'd passed away? Was there something in the documents leading you there? And why were you—

Oh.

Right.

You weren't sleeping earlier.

You were probably dead.

...That just leaves you with even more questions in need of answering, though.

Why were you dead? You figure it was probably the stab wounds, but why did you even have them? What about you just screams that you need to be stabbed? Were you rich? Were you some kind of eminently stabbable jackass?

God you hope you're not a jackass. Then you'd probably feel obligated to go re-find your grave and curl up in there forever since you probably deserved your death in that case. You don't feel rich and stabbable, though.

You suppose you might have been a random attack, or some kind of ritual killing or something, that second one sounds pretty plausible since you died but you're still out here standing in the rain waiting for a ride to come, which is generally not a thing people do unless there's magic involved. You might've had something someone wanted, like a package, or information you don't remember anymore. You could've been a witness to something maybe.

It could've really been anything. You don't know.

Hell, come to think of it, who even are _you_ , anyways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asterax of Eilonwhee is a Revenant Death Cleric who exists because I wanted to make two things: I wanted to make a powerful offensive cleric, and I wanted to make a revenant paladin. At the time I had nine paladins already and told myself that was enough, so I made a revenant cleric. Then I got sad and made a revenant paladin anyways.
> 
> Rather than using the Unearthed Arcana entry for the revenant (which is pretty overpowered for a player race), Asterax was made using [Revenant: The Vengeful Dead.](https://www.dmsguild.com/product/194433/Revenant-The-Vengeful-Dead)


	2. Light Domain

Even if she knows it's a dream, it's still fun to play on the playground. She lands at the bottom of the slide with slightly mussed hair and a big smile on her face, and runs off to climb all over the monkey bars again next.

It's well past nighttime, which is part of how Elisa knows she's having a dream, since her curfew is a little before dinnertime, and the pryats wouldn't like her being out in the city alone by herself anyways. And the lanterns by the black metal gate are really well lit, too. Just the two of them are enough to light up the whole playground! She's pretty sure that none of the lanterns in town are bright enough for that, and none of the playgrounds are open at night anyways. _And_ , on top of that, there's a watchman standing right by the gate keeping an eye on her. That's the part that makes it really obvious that she's dreaming—a real watchman would've taken her back to the temple by now. This one's just part of the dream.

'Course, even if he did take her away to the temple, he'd still be a pretty crummy watchman. He looks human, and he's in the right uniform, and his beard's all neat and trimmed like the watchmen usually have them, but his eyes are the same color blue as the really expensive paint the illuminators use to paint the eye of Helm, and she's never seen a human with anything like that. He doesn't seem bothered by her horns at all like most of the other humans in town do either, so he's definitely fake.

Elisa doesn't really know what he's doing in her dream, though. She's pretty sure she's never met him before.

The monkey bars are painted in really bright colors and have a lot of different grips and handles along the sides that make them really fun to climb. When she reaches the top of the ladder she shimmies her way up through the bars so she can sit on top of the whole thing as Queen of the Monkey Bars. She gives a wave to the watchman standing by the gate.

He looks startled at the fact that she even noticed him, all shakey for a second like he thought he was doing a really good job at hiding even if he was just standing a little bit behind the gates.

Her big smile just gets even bigger.

"The gates don't close, you know!" she calls. "How come you're just standing there?"

The watchman looks at her for a good long while. He doesn't even look suspicious or cross at her or nothing. Totally fake.

"I... am a watchman," he says, like he's sounding everything out before he says it. "I am keeping watch."

His voice sounds really deep, but in a nice kind of way that makes her think of one of the paladins that gives her candy sometimes.

She likes it.

Her legs swing in the open air under the monkey bars as she looks back at him. "What for? This isn't real, isn't it? What's there to look out for?"

There's another look flashing on his face for a second, one Elisa's a lot more familiar with. She doesn't know if it has a name. It's the face that the pryats make when she's asked a question with a really bad answer, and they don't know how much is okay to tell a little kid.

She's not little, though. She was really little when her momma was still alive, but she's been getting bigger and bigger really quick ever since she came to the temple. The matron says it's cause she's eating more, but Elisa's pretty sure there's probably more to it than that. All the Everwatch knights are really, really tall, and most of them spend a lot of time in the temple, so it's probably less eating more food and probably more something that's in the food.

The watchman still looks like he's struggling, so Elisa hops off the monkey bars and heads over to the swings. There's two swings to swing on side by side. She settles herself down on one and pats the other one with her hand.

"If you're looking after me, you can do it just fine from the swings," she says.

The watchman looks at her. She's not that far from the playground's entrance, so she can see his blue eyes flickering back between her and the gate for a few seconds while he's thinking.

Eventually though, he pushes the gate open and walks into the playground, making a beeline for the other swing. He settles down on the seat with a lot of clanking metal while all the armored plates in his uniform scrape against each other. It's such an unexpected sound that Elisa can't help but giggle.

The watchman doesn't laugh with her. He just hunches over a little and sighs.

"Copper for your thoughts?" she asks. "How come you look so sad? Aren't you part of _my_ dream?"

"...Yes and no. I created this dream for you, but I am not a part of it. Or at least, I was not supposed to be."

Elisa blinks. She hadn't known you could make dreams for people. Is that magic? It's probably magic. It _sounds_ like magic.

But then the words sink in, and she looks around them at the well-lit playground. It's the really nice one in the clean part of town that all the really rich people live in. All the paint is still shiny and bright, and there's no chips in it at all. Every time she's seen it, she hadn't been able to go in—either her escort said they needed to get back to the temple, or there was a watchman to take her away, or it was too late in the evening, or...

There's a question bubbling up in her, and it comes out of her mouth before she can finish thinking it over.

"How come you made this dream for me?" she asks, turning to look back at the watchman.

He looks back at her. She can see his eyes at lot more clearly from this close up. She kind of wants to ask how they're that really strong blue color.

He turns away again when he starts talking.

"There is something coming, soon. Something that will be very dangerous for you. I've tried taking alternative pathways that would keep it far away from you, but thus far I've had only mixed success. And now I'm afraid I've run out of options entirely."

"Oh," Elisa says, because that's usually how you respond when grown-ups say things like that. She purses her lips and kicks her feet off the ground while she thinks, swaying a little on the swing.

"Well... You tried really hard to keep it away, didn't you?"

"Very. Perhaps I might have succeeded had not a number of good men and women died suddenly in the end."

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. And she is sorry. She can still remember when her momma died and the temple took her in. A lot of the other kids in the temple dormitories had said they were sorry when they asked how she'd gotten there and she told them, but they usually weren't really sorry. It was just something that you say when someone dies.

But she means it when she says it. She really means it.

The watchman shakes his head. "Do not be. They always knew there was a chance they would die in the line of duty. They did what they could, and they died with no regrets in their hearts."

"Oh", she says again. This time it's because she doesn't know what else to say.

So Elisa doesn't really say anything. She sits in silence for a while, kicks her feet off and swings on the swings a few times—not as high as she normally might though. The watchman doesn't move while she swings. He just sits there on the other swing, watching her.

Eventually, she stops. Eventually, she drags her feet across the soft grass under the swing and slows down, chewing on her bottom lip. It doesn't hurt like it normally does. Probably because of the dream.

"Um, " she starts out, because this feels like something important and she's not really sure if she's got it right, "So this thing that's coming... you said it was dangerous, right?"

"Very," the watchman replies.

"How dangerous?"

"You would need to leave the temple you call home and travel far away. I will try to ensure that you will encounter other travelers who would be able to assist you, but I cannot guarantee you would secure their aid. You will face violent opposition in this endeavor, and likely from the sort who would not show mercy to you solely on the basis of your age," he says. His gaze moves around while he talks. She notices that he's looking everywhere he possibly can except at her. "There is a very real possibility that you may die."

Her face scrunches up. Her teeth go down hard on her bottom lip, and she can feel one of her fangs break the skin. It still doesn't hurt though. None of it hurts.

She doesn't think the watchman will let it hurt.

"So how come I'm in a playground?" Elisa asks. "If I need to travel far away, how come I'm here instead of trying to learn how to fight? Or disarm traps? Or learn magic? How come I'm not dreaming of something more important?"

"Children should not be forced to bear the burdens of adults. And yet, I have thrust this burden upon you nevertheless. The least I could do is offer you one last happy memory before you find your life uprooted."

"So... This dream is an apology?"

"You could call it that."

And she looks at him. She looks at him looking at her, all hunched over like he's tired and lines on his face like he's sad and _I've run out of options_ and _good men and women died_ and _the least I could do_ and—

And she makes a decision.

She moves her seat towards him and wraps her arms around the watchman's waist suddenly. He immediately freezes. His arms are stiff and in the way and she just brushes them aside and hugs him harder. She hugs him until the cold, hard metal of his breastplate makes her face hurt from pressing up against it so hard, and her stomach starts getting really uncomfortable because of how she's twisted in her seat, and they've both been quiet for so long that she can practically hear all the questions the watchman wants to ask her.

He settles his arms over hers and rests his hands on her shoulders. She can't really tell if he's trying to push her away, of if he's trying to hug back but he doesn't really know how. She doesn't care. She just keep hugging as tight as she can.

"I forgive you," Elisa says, and she can hear the watchman take a sharp breath.

"I failed you," he says.

"But you tried your best," she says, trying to hug him even harder, just for a moment. "And that's the important part."

He doesn't say anything at that. She gets the feeling that maybe he doesn't know what to say.

She gets the feeling he doesn't get many hugs, either. So she just does what her momma used to tell her to do, and she doesn't let go first 'cause sometimes you never know how long somebody might need it.

She keeps holding on until he finally starts pushing her away, and she goes back to her swing with a smile on her face.

"And I know you're worried, but I'll be okay outside the temple. Momma taught me all about how to find food and water in the woods, and how to set traps, and how to untie knots, and how to find my way back home by looking at the sky, and a lot of the other stuff she knew when she was a forest ranger. I can handle myself just fine," she says proudly.

"You shouldn't have to," the watchman replies.

"But I'm _gonna_ have to."

"That still doesn't make it right. Children should have the opportunity to _be_ children. You should never have been put in this position."

"Opportunity?"

"The chance."

"Oh," Elisa says. "But I _did_ though. I got to be a kid with my momma, and I got to be a kid in the temple. And I'm not a little girl, you know. I'm almost ten years old."

And the watchman _looks_ at her, all serious like, with something that she can't really place in his paint blue eyes. He makes a sound, suddenly. It's dry and scratchy and low and it takes her a while to realize he's _laughing_. He's laughing because she said she wasn't a little girl anymore and her face heats up and she pouts ferociously when she realizes what that means but she can't be too upset because this is the first time in the whole dream so far that he's been anything other than sad.

He doesn't laugh long, but it's long enough for her to calm down. The fact that he sounds like he hasn't laughed in a long time probably helps. And she doesn't get why the watchman sounds like that. He should laugh more often—his laugh would probably sound better if he did.

He brings a gloved hand to his mouth as he quiets down. There's a small smile on his bearded face, and his eyes don't look _as_ sad as they did before when he opens them again.

"Yes," he says eventually. "Yes, you are." 

His voice is still dry when he says it, like it's some kind of secret joke. A grown-up joke, probably. One of the ones that's really gloomy at the end.

She decides it's better than nothing. She smiles back at him.

Then a thought hits her.

"Oh, um," Elisa sputters out, kicking her feet along the grass as she thinks through what she wants to say. "How long is this dream gonna last? 'Cause, I don't really wanna leave just yet, but I've gotta wake up sometime, right?"

"We have more time, if that's what you're worried about," the watchman says gently. "You can continue playing if you want. I will let you know when it is time to wake."

She nods. "Oh. Okay. Um... Will you play with me until then?"

The watchman opens his mouth, and pauses, and for a moment Elisa thinks that he's going to say no. He definitely looks like he _wants_ to say no at least.

But instead he just closes his eyes, and shakes his head, and smiles a bit wider, and when his eyes open again there's a twinkle in them when he says, "I might be persuaded to do so."

Elisa shoots him the biggest grin she's ever made and goes off running for the jungle gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elisa Dupree is a tiefling light cleric, one of the only three characters I have which can be made just with the player's handbook.  
> She is also singlehandedly responsible for Helm being my favorite character in the entire dnd overcanon, since when I decided I wanted to make a light cleric I went looking for gods for her to follow and decided Helm seemed the best fit; though when I was first concepting her character it was less "I grew up under Him and am indebted to His followers" and more "He's the only bitch in this pantheon I respect."


	3. Life Domain

She had been created as an art piece.

"The Weeping Princess" they called her, a lifelike doll who cried tears of diamonds and sapphires. Her hair of silk, her eyes of abalone, her skin of porcelain—she was beautiful. None who came to see her could say anything else about her countenance other than that she was beautiful. Only once had anyone come close.

There had been a visiting prince once, who asked her creator why he had chosen such a sad expression for his creation. Her creator, Shah Hassan Colovar, had told the prince thusly: "I am a powerful man, good sir, and as all powerful men do I have many enemies. I wanted to ensure that in the event of my untimely death, there would be at least one who would weep for me."

The prince took the answer with a thoughtful expression and moved on with his curiosity satisfied. He did not spare her another glance until it came time for him to take his leave of the Shah's palace.

She remembered that conversation well. The prince had kept his attention solely on the Shah even as he looked right at her, and had never suspected for a moment that she might actually be looking right at him as she wept and wept.

She had been created as an art piece.

She was clockwork inside. Mechanical. Perfectly regimented and perfectly ordered, as all who observed her told her creator that she was. The Shah knew better, for he had made her with his own two hands. When Shah Colovar noticed that his creation would vary occasionally in fulfilling his orders, or in playing music, or in simply weeping her tears of diamonds and sapphires, he spoke to her softly but sternly: "Dearest creation, I did not intend to give you life, but if I have done so then please, do not be afraid to give me a sign."

She had not spoken to him then, for her voice had been created solely to weep and cry for the Shah, not to reassure. But her face had a pair of perfectly downturned lips, and if she were to angle her head in such a way, they could be seen almost to smile.

The Shah had embraced her then. For the first time, she wept her diamonds and sapphires in tears of true joy, rather than artificial sorrow. The next day, Shah Colovar descended into his workshop with his creation by his side, and gave her a voice of her own to sing praises to the gods with.

If any who visited him wondered aloud why his creation sung so sweetly as she cried, or spoke his name so reverently, the Shah would have said only that he wanted his mourner to let the people know how grand a loss his life would be.

She had been created as an art piece. She was more than that.

It was easy to forget with her intricate hairstyles and well-painted features that the symbol carved so delicately into her forehead was not simply decoration.

It was easy to forget with her clothing chosen for decoration rather than practicality that her body was made of not only porcelain, not only gemstone, but silver, but adamantine, but purpleheart and garadilla wood.

It was easy to forget with how sweet her playing and how dear her performance of weeping that her fingers and toes numbered only ten in total.

It was easy to forget with how dainty her structure, that she weighed more than even two grown men, and could hit just as hard.

The Shah was truly a man with many enemies to his name, but he was not a man with many allies. Or at least, not many allies who would come to his defense if ever he needed them to. He needed a means of defending himself, but he needed a means of doing so discretely, lest his supposed 'allies' take offense.

And so he created a doll. A perfect, beautiful little doll, that he named Marika after the daughter he never had. He gave her a disarming appearance and a charming quirk, and made her so lavishly expensive that none would ever think of how sturdy she actually was, how perceptive she was, how capable she was.

How _powerful_ she was.

She had been created as an art piece, but she had been forged for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marika Colovar is a Warforged life cleric who was initially created as a clockwork cleric for a fairy tale-based campaign that fell through. Her fairytale was, obviously, The Weeping Princess, which happens to be a favorite of mine since I love robots.


	4. Strength Domain

It was hard trying to clean the moss and grime off of the temple walls without also accidentally cleaning off the chipping paint from the frescoes. Hard, but not impossible. You just needed to be careful, and take your time, and keep a steady hand.

Lala figured that for a god whose followers probably numbered in the single digits by now, if not the one singular digit, two out of three was probably good enough. Her hands were wobbly as shit and probably always would be.

She dipped her rag into what was probably once some kind of ceremonial vessel that she'd filled with soapy water and went back to scrubbing. There were only so many walls left in the little cathedral that she'd found herself living in, but every single one of them was an all-day job to clean. Mostly because she kept getting distracted. But also because the walls were huge and absolutely wrecked with shit to clean off of them.

She wiped a bit of sweat off her forehead with her arm and kept on scrubbing. This was the last wall she had left to clean. She could do this.

She _would_ do this. It would just take a bit of time.

The cathedral, if it could still be called such a thing, was something Lala had found on her journey to get as far away from home as physically possible before anyone noticed she was gone. The windows were smashed in (which let all the hot air in during the day, and the cold air in during the night), the pews were broken and rotting (but they made nice firewood while they'd lasted), the floors were all covered in dirt and dust (which had been hell to clean up), and oh yeah the walls were covered in moss and mold and plants and stuff. There were infinite places infinitely more suitable to live in when one wants to run away from home.

But this place just _fascinated_ her.

Lala was many things, but she was a bookworm and an academic at heart. The mystery the cathedral provided was deeply tantalizing. She didn't recognize the holy symbol that was carved into everything. None of the few remaining texts she'd found still had the name of their god inside. The people in the nearest village didn't know much about the cathedral at all, and she was pretty sure at least a handful of them thought she was some kind of witch with just appeared in it one day, fully formed and crazy and probably trying to steal their children or something.

The rag in her hands cleared away a piece of the fresco she'd never seen before. Lala paused, transfixed for a moment, before going back and viciously cleaning that particular area. Roughly fifteen minutes of intense scrubbing later, her efforts were rewarded. She dusted off a chunk of broken tiling in front of the wall, and sat down to get a better look at the graven image she'd uncovered.

It looked like the other depictions of the cathedral's god, more or less. Armor golden and (more or less) immaculate, with a sword of a specific type that Lala didn't know the name of held in one hand and an interestingly-shaped shield held in the other. He bore no helmet in this depiction (as he didn't in any of the others she'd found so far, though she did find an illustrated manual that depicted him holding his helmet in his hands), letting his wild hair flow freely.

He was strong, and powerfully built, leading her to wonder what sort of god he was. War? Strength? Protection? Some combination of the three? He looked down at the viewer, or maybe just down at one viewer in particular, and his expression seemed stern, but not unforgiving.

There were chunks of paint missing from a mix of time and moss, and holes were gouged into the walls where she suspected gems had once been placed. She wondered how the fresco might've looked back when the cathedral was still in its heyday. It must've been breathtaking. Even now, decades, possibly centuries or millennia later it was awe-inspiring to look at the image of the god before her, powerful and dedicated and masculine and okay so maybe there was another reason why she stuck around.

So maybe she was lonely. So maybe she was projecting. So maybe she had a crush on a dead god. Lala had spent all her time listening to stories and reading books as a youth because all the actual men in her life had either been uncaring or ill-willing, and she'd ended up living through old fairytales and adventures and romances instead of reality just to get away from it all. So what if her intentions were a little less than noble? Give her a fucking break. So long as the cathedral got fixed up and people started caring about its god again, what did it matter what her reasons were? People had done better for worse.

She shifted her position on the floor so she could lean back and get a different viewpoint. The depiction was still mesmerizing. The farther back she leaned, the more it seemed like the god was looking directly at her.

She wondered. What would the god sound like, if he were here in front of her as flesh and blood rather than paint on a wall? What would he say to her? What would he do? Would he tell her, dispassionately, to resume the duties she'd given herself and get back to work? Would he thank her for the work she had already done, place a hand upon her shoulder, maybe give her a smile? Would he perhaps bring her closer, a well-muscled arm around her body, a well-worked hand placed not on her shoulder but on her jaw, a thumb brushing against her lip, and...

And...

And _nothing_. There wouldn't be any more.

There was no gentle grip on her shoulder. There was no callused thumb on her lip. There was no one else in the cathedral.

There was just her. Alone, like always, staring at a painting she'd only ever seen for perhaps five minutes.

Lala glanced over to her makeshift wash basin. The water inside was dark and muddy with accumulated moss and muck. She'd have to dump it and get new water if she wanted to keep going. And she would have to keep going. There was still plenty more wall to clean up before she could consider this project done.

She let out an exhale just a smidge too short to be a sigh and wrung out the rag in her hands before picking up the formerly holy vessel and carrying it outside to dump in the open grass around the ruined cathedral.

She still had all day to finish cleaning the wall. There was still that. When she was done with the wall, the rest of her day, and the next few days after that, would probably be spent making soaps and poultices to carry into the nearest town and trade for whatever she needed that week. Eggs and hardy cheeses, usually. Things that could keep well in the unregulated environment of the cathedral.

Lala spared a quick glance back at the depiction before wetting her rag and moving on to another patch of overgrown moss.

Maybe next week she'd add paint to her list to fill in the gaps in the frescoes. They certainly needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladislava Harann is made with the Amonkhet [Strength Domain](https://dnd.wizards.com/articles/features/plane-shift-amonkhet). Initially I used a Dandwiki Strength domain, but then I found a canon one and had to switch, even if it cost me martial weapon proficiency. ;-;
> 
> Ladislava is inspired by a Fire Emblem oc of mine, and her god likewise is inspired by Duma from Gaiden/Shadows of Valentia.


End file.
